My run becomes a jog, then a walk, and then a shuffle before I finally stop.
Panting, I glance back. No police.
I rest my hands on my hips and try to catch my breath. What I’d really like to do is find someplace I can lie down for a while, but I know that’s the effect of the pill and I need to fight it.
Once my breathing is under control, I take a better look around. Both sides of the street are lined with shops — restaurants with signs that read ITALIAN and DELI and COFFEE and ESPRESSO, something called 7-Eleven, several clothing stores, and others I can’t identify.
Have I stumbled into an area reserved for the upper castes? I could almost believe that, if not for the makeup of the crowd sharing the walkway with me, not to mention the trio of vagabonds I can see from where I’m standing.
What the hell is going on here? Where in God’s name am I?
One of Marie’s lessons forces its way through my growing confusion. We were in Rome, somewhere in the 1700s, surrounded by so much history that I couldn’t hide my excitement.
“It’s easy to get overwhelmed,” she said. “But that’s when mistakes are made. Stay within yourself. Take in everything step by step.”
Step by step, I tell myself. Get the Chaser, and then figure out what’s going on.
I close my eyes and concentrate until one thing rises above the others: 244 Rosemary Avenue.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The store called 7-Eleven turns out to be a kind of prepackaged food market. The sheer number of items the place carries would be enough to distract me if I don’t force myself to stay on mission and approach the counter where a clerk is finishing up with a customer.
From the turban he’s wearing and the color of his skin, I guess he is Indian. There are many from the India region of the empire in New Cardiff, too, so this man’s presence is not a distraction to me. But his customer is. Though her skin is lighter than the clerk’s, there’s no question in my mind she’s African. When she speaks, I expect to hear a heavy accent, but the one she has is similar to that of my nurse, Clara.
The woman must have sensed I’ve been staring because as she leaves, she glances at me and says, “What’s your problem?”
“I’m sorry. No problem. I didn’t—”
“Yeah, you’d better be sorry,” she says as she pushes open the door.
I take her place at the counter and the clerk says, “Can I help you?”
“Do you carry maps?”
“A map of what?”
“Brooklyn.”
He turns, pulls something out of a holder on the wall behind him, and sets it on the counter. “With tax, eight ninety-three.”
I reach to pick it up, but he puts a finger on it, holding it down.
“Pay first.”
“I just need to take a quick look at it.”
“Eight dollars and ninety-three cents or it goes back on the wall.”
The only money I have is what I was given to use on my mission. Since it’s two hundred years old, I doubt the clerk would honor it. Besides, I don’t know what kind of dollars he’s talking about. In New Cardiff we use the pound, and I’m not sure why they aren’t doing the same here.
“I’m looking for a street. Rosemary Avenue. Can you just help me with that?”
“Buy the map, find the street. If not, go. I have other customers.”
The answer I need is inches away, but it might as well be on the other side of the ocean. “Thank you for your time,” I say and make a quick exit.
Stepping outside, I have no idea what to do. As I turn left, I see the customer who was inside the store earlier. She’s standing on the sidewalk, pulling disks of food out of a hand-size yellow and white bag.
She raises both eyebrows and says, “Why do you keep looking at me? Who the hell do you think you are?
“I’m sorry. I’m not staring,” I say quickly. “I was actually wondering if you could help me.”
“Huh. Right.”
She turns and starts walking away.
“Please, wait. I…I’m looking for a map. You wouldn’t happen to have one I could look at, would you?”
“And have you run off with my phone? Not going to happen.”
“I didn’t say anything about a com-phone.”
She stops and looks back at me. “A what?”
“I’m trying to find out where Rosemary Avenue is.”
“You don’t need any map to find Rosemary Avenue.”
“You can tell me where it is?” I ask.
“Yeah, but it’ll cost you.”
My shoulders sag. “I don’t have any money.”
“Of course you don’t.” She looks me over. “You don’t look homeless.”
Another new term, but one with a meaning easy enough to figure out. “I’m not.” I reach into my satchel and pull out a Spanish dollar. “You can have this.”
“What is that? A quarter?”
I toss it to her.
“This isn’t American,” she said, turning it in her hand.
“No. It’s Spanish. An antique. I’m sure it’s worth something.”
She looks at me, her eyes narrow. “You’re going to give me an antique coin for directions? This is a fake.”
“It’s not.” I’m tempted to give her another, but think that might reinforce her belief that the coin isn’t real.
“That’s a pretty nice bag,” she says.
I drop a hand over my satchel. “I can’t give this to you. I need it.”
She laughs. “I’m just messing with you. I don’t want your bag, but I’ll keep your stupid coin.”
Night has fallen by the time I reach Rosemary Avenue. I follow the numbers until I arrive at 244. There’s a sign out front that proclaims FOR SALE. Under this is a person’s name and phone number.
So far I recognize nothing, and wonder if I misheard the address from the policeman. But then again, the only memories I have of the house are from inside, so that’s where I need to check. I sneak around the side of the house to search for a way in where I won’t be noticed, but the windows and back door are locked.
The thought of slamming it open crosses my mind, but I doubt my weakened body could get the door to budge. Instead, I wrap my jacket around a brick and use that to break a basement window. Once the glass is cleared away, I drop inside.
The basement is as unfamiliar to me as the outside, so I assume I never made it down here. The stairs take me up into a small hallway on the ground floor. From there, I pass through the kitchen to the room at the front of the house, and suddenly I know I’m in the right place.
This is the room that flashed through my mind, and I finally feel like everything is going to be okay.
But as I take the first step toward the fireplace, I hear a voice just outside the front door.
I look across the room in time to see the knob turn, but the door does not move. Whoever’s outside apparently doesn’t have the key.
I tiptoe as close as I dare.
“Told you it was a long shot,” a male voice says. “Face it, we’re never going to see him again. We already wasted enough time searching for him around the hospital. I say we go back to the station.”
“Stop whining,” a second man says. I recognize this voice immediately. It belongs to the policeman who chased me outside the hospital. The other voice must be his partner’s. “We’re here, so we might as well check around back. Then we can go. Okay?”
A sigh is followed by a resigned “Fine.”
I freeze. They’re going to find the broken window and come after me. As I hear them descend the front steps, I whip back around and hurry quietly to the fireplace. Kneeling, I stick a hand up the chimney.
“Hey, check this out!” The shout comes from the back of the house, and a moment later I hear the crunch of glass as someone lands on the shards in the basement.